


In Music the Passions Enjoy Themselves

by Cinaed



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Blow Jobs, First Meetings, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4642908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Admiral Bëor lets Estolad, Lord Finrod finds himself very interested in his new neighbour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Music the Passions Enjoy Themselves

**Author's Note:**

> This is sath's fault, as usual, and nisie's for encouraging me with the idea of Bëor/Finrod make-outs in the vestibule. 
> 
> The title comes from Friedrich Nietzsche.

Finrod ever relished shocking society in a myriad of ways, from his delight in bachelorhood to his fascination with commoners and the local smithy. 

When he shooed away the poor girl playing at the harp after one too many missed notes – and truly, what  _had_  her mother been thinking when the girl clearly had no skill for it? – and began to play the instrument himself, the murmurs of the onlookers were resigned rather than surprised. 

A shadow fell upon him as he finished the first quadrille. When he looked up, he found himself studying features he had glimpsed briefly and with interest from across the ballroom. Admiral Bëor, lately of the king’s navy, had a fine face, lined and weathered but filled with humour. He wore a beard in defiance of the current fashion, which lent him a charmingly roguish air. Finrod liked him immediately, with a strength of sentiment that took him aback. 

“That is my harp, my lord,” the admiral said in a mild tone. 

Finrod rose to his feet, laughing and offering a small bow. “So it must be, for this is your house. Good evening, sir! I was so pleased to hear Estolad had been let at last.” He paused and arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “I suppose you are here on behalf of some poor mother, who wishes to show off her daughter’s musical accomplishments?” 

“Not at all, my lord,” said Bëor, and Finrod felt his interest stir further at the admiral’s low voice and slight smile, as though they were sharing a private jest. “You play excellently well. I wished to know if you take requests.” 

Finrod reseated himself with a flourish that he knew showed himself to advantage. He was rewarded by Bëor’s intense regard and the sharpening of his smile. Pleased with his own foresight in wearing his most tight-fitting pantaloons, Finrod said, “Certainly, if the request pleases me.”

“Would a cotillion please you?”  

Finrod looked curiously at him. He wasn’t certain what he’d been expecting, but it was hardly that. “A cotillion is for debuntantes and bachelors, sir. Are you here in search of a wife then?” He felt a stab of disappointment at the thought.

Bëor shook his head in denial. “I am a widower. Having been blessed with so fine a first wife, I shall not risk my luck to try for a second. But my two sons are of age, and I would see them settled.”

Relief banished his earlier disappointment. Finrod smiled. “You have endeared yourself to half the mothers in the county with those words, sir. A cotillion will set your sons on the right track.” He hailed the master of ceremonies.

As the master of ceremonies announced the cotillion and the dancers began to assemble, Bëor stepped close. So near, all the medals on his broad chest glittered like gold, and Finrod could smell the faint scent of cheroot that clung to him. The scent tickled at Finrod’s nose.

When Finrod tipped his head up and smiled his most charming smile, more colour rose in Bëor’s face and he drew in a quick breath, as though Finrod had landed a blow. His voice, however, was steady as he said, “You have my thanks, my lord.”

“Oh no,” Finrod said, and laughed, shaking his head. “That will not do at all, my dear admiral. I must have more than your thanks.”

No surprise showed on Bëor’s dark features at Finrod’s forwardness. Obviously Finrod’s reputation had preceded him. Instead, his eyes gleamed, and his colour heightened. It was an appealing look. “And what will you have of me, my lord?”

“Your company for the evening,” Finrod said. He began the cotillion, adding, “And a promise that you shall call upon me tomorrow." 

“It would be my pleasure,” Bëor said, and his tone was such that Finrod nearly missed a note.

 

* * *

 

“I was under the impression that admirals were priggish,” Finrod said a half-hour later as Bëor closed the door to the vestibule. He leaned against the wall, positioning himself to show off his silhouette. “Are you unique amongst your rank, or have I been misinformed?”

“Greatly misinformed,” Bëor said and advanced upon him. In the next instant they were kissing, Bëor’s beard rough against Finrod’s skin and his mouth slightly sweet from the cheroot. Against Finrod’s throat, he pressed a biting kiss that made Finrod gasp. “Though I wonder that you have not heard the duke of Angband’s tirades on the vices of the navy.”

Finrod wrinkled his nose. Some of his ardour cooled at the mention of the duke. He struck Bëor’s broad shoulder with a light fist in rebuke. “I do my best to avoid Angband and his ilk, sir. And I suggest you leave his name off your lips for the remainder of the evening.”

Bëor’s mouth twisted briefly into an apologetic look before he grinned. “Believe me, I have much better uses for my mouth.” He proved it by taking Finrod’s face in his large hands and kissing him again, nipping at Finrod’s mouth.  

Finrod groaned appreciatively. Desire moved through him, hot and damning. When Bëor paused for breath, Finrod knelt. He looked up into Bëor’s face, watching surprise smooth most of the lines from his countenance. He laughed softly. “Do you object, sir?”

“No,” said Bëor, though his gaze turned briefly towards the door and the muffled sounds of the ongoing ball. His hand landed lightly upon Finrod’s hair, his fingers carding through the curls. He licked his lips and grinned. “Not at all.”

“Good.”

Though Bëor must have been used to giving orders rather than receiving them, he obeyed Finrod’s quiet instructions, shifting so that his back was to the wall.

Finrod drank in the sight of him, stroking his hands slowly over the thick thighs that parted easily at his touch. He was glad to be on his knees, for he was lightheaded with need. He wished that he could take Bëor somewhere private, disrobe him slowly until that beautifully strong body was laid out naked before him, and indulge in hours of pleasure. Tomorrow, perhaps.  

He made quick work of Bëor’s flies and spared one last kiss to the innermost part of Beor’s thigh. Then he swallowed Bëor to the hilt.

Bëor’s hand tightened in his hair and he swore, low and earnest. His entire body strained, his thighs shivering beneath Finrod’s hands, as though it was taking all his strength not to thrust wildly into Finrod’s mouth.

Finrod smiled, satisfaction heavy in his belly. He drew back a moment, just enough to murmur, “You needn’t be gentle. In fact, I would prefer if you weren’t.” He took Bëor into his mouth again as Bëor laughed.

“You are a demon,” he said admiringly. He stroked Finrod’s hair, his cheek, his jaw with rough, callused hands. “They say so in Town, how the marquess of Nargothrond is a dandy and a devil, but I didn’t--” He laughed again, the sound turning to a moan halfway through as Finrod hummed in cheerful agreement.

Now Bëor thrust, all his repressed strength giving way to forceful movements. Within moments Finrod’s mouth and throat ached sweetly, his own prick heavy between his legs. He shifted on his knees, fumbling with his own flies, and then gave up on the attempt as Bëor said hoarsely, “Pull off, or else--”

Finrod laughed, caressing Bëor’s knee to encourage him, and Bëor groaned and spilled into his mouth. Swallowing what he could, Finrod took a handkerchief from his waistcoat and carefully wiped away what he couldn’t. Then he looked ruefully at the ruined handkerchief, wondering what to do with it.

Bëor touched his hair again, stroking his curls and then the nape of Finrod’s neck. “Let me,” he began, and stopped as the door opened and light spilled into the room. His hand fanned Finrod’s head, as though to shield Finrod from discovery. It was an endearing, if futile, gesture.  

“Oh!” a woman said, startled. “Oh. Excuse me.” There was less surprise in that familiar, musical voice, and more amusement. The door closed. Wryly, Lady Aredhel said, “Really, Finrod, in the _vestibule_? Have you any sense of decency at all?”

Finrod turned on his knees and arched an eyebrow. “Glass houses, my dear. You are the one leaving unpardonably early, after all.”

Aredhel looked unrepentant. “You know balls bore me. I only came to learn about our new neighbours.” Her smile widened, humour granting her pale face a charming glow. “And I’ve learned more than I expected.” She curtsied to Bëor. “Forgive my intrusion, sir. If you will excuse me, I’ve a meeting with Sir Cúthalion tomorrow regarding his recent tracts on forestry.”

She left with a rustle of her strange white gown.

For a moment all was quiet, Bëor staring after Aredhel with a furrow in his brow and grim set to his mouth.

Finrod patted his knee. “Pray do not worry about her ladyship, sir. Lady Aredhel has had enough scandal in her life that she is not interested in the affairs of others. She shan’t cry rope on us.” He paused, looking speculatively towards the vestibule’s exit, and added, “Though I cannot promise the same of others, should anyone else have seen us.”

Bëor’s expression cleared. “My reputation is unimportant, my lord, save for how it might affect the marriage prospects of my boys. No, I was simply….” He paused, shaking his head. “I am not one for gossip, but even at sea one heard of Lady Aredhel and her—her divorce.”

“The man was a toad,” Finrod said, more sharply than he intended, and Bëor looked startled.

“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, my lord.”

Finrod softened with his rebuke with a smile. “Forgive me. It is not a time her ladyship or any of her friends and family look back on fondly.” He patted Bëor’s knee again, ignoring the still present ache of his prick, which had lessened at Aredhel’s interruption but not entirely abated. “Perhaps we should return to the ball. Your absence must have been noticed by now.”

It was his turn to be startled as Bëor laughed, low and deep. “I am not such an ungracious host, my lord.” Seizing Finrod’s elbows, he lifted him to his feet as though he weighed nothing at all. Then his hand dipped to Finrod’s half undone flies.

“Oh,” Finrod said, pleased, and sighed as Bëor’s hand closed around his length. He wrapped his arms around Bëor’s broad shoulders, leaning against him as he rubbed himself into that gloriously warm palm. His pleasure mounted quickly. Breathless, determined to be clever, he said, “Your manners do you credit, sir,” and then came, Bëor’s warm laughter mingling with the roaring in Finrod’s ears.

He slumped against the wall, murmuring his gratitude as Bëor used the soiled handkerchief to clean him. Then he pressed another kiss to Bëor’s mouth, soft and lingering. “We should return to the ball,” he said again, rather wishing they didn’t, and then paused. He recalled Bëor’s earlier promise. “I don’t know what times you kept as an admiral, though I suspect you are one of those people who rise abominably early. If you will call upon me tomorrow after ten, however, I shall show you the country side in my phaeton or curricle, whichever you like the best.”

Bëor’s smile was exceedingly charming as he bowed. “Look for me at ten, my lord.” Then he was gone, back to the noise and chatter of the ball.

Finrod lingered a moment, brushing his curls back into a semblance of their former style. Then he smoothed out any wrinkles from his clothing and banished any sign of ravishment with a sigh. At least he had the promise of future encounters with the admiral.

When he reentered the ballroom, a voice hailed him. “Nargothrond!” Gondolin nodded towards him, smiling. If anyone had seen him and Bëor, it seemed that the story of it had not yet reached his fellow marquess. “Will you join me for a game of whist?”

Finrod laughed. “Of course I shall.”  

Across the ballroom, Bëor glanced towards him. Their eyes met, and though Bëor’s polite expression didn’t change, Finrod felt another spark in his belly. He smiled, turning back towards Gondolin.

He was very much looking forward to the next morning.    


End file.
